


Long Drive

by blackholesun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Flashback, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackholesun/pseuds/blackholesun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post-Reichenbach]  Tortured pasts, old resentments, scores to settle: there’s a lot standing in Sherlock’s way.  This is a story of how Sherlock gets back to John, while restoring his humanity along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Drive

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Modest Mouse album "This is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think About."
> 
> Lots of triggers in this, including drug use, abuse, rape/noncon, and underage sex. There are a lot of pairings, but the story follows Sherlock closely.
> 
> A big thanks to Emily for listening to my ideas and staying up with me for hours while we proofread this together.

 

 

 

He shrugs off her icepack.  Curled up on Molly’s couch, nursing a sprained knee, Sherlock only has thoughts for John. 

For once, his brain cannot handle anything _but_ John thoughts.  No matter how hard he tries, he can’t focus on what Molly’s caress against his leg may mean or what the state of her crudely knitted blanket reveals about her anxiety. 

There is only the puff of breath in air as John screams his name.  The fleeting touch of fingers against his wrist.  The moan of “he’s my friend.”  He has no room for anything but _John John John_ hammering in his head, and if he’s honest with himself, John has been encroaching on his thoughts for longer than he’d dare admit. 

There is certainly no room for the way Molly’s hands shake as she checks his injuries over, or the defeated slump of Lestrade’s forehead against the floor, or how Mycroft is hiding from his feelings behind a tabloid in the The Diogenes Club’s icy silence. 

There’s simply not room at all.

 

 

 

 

*            

_I’m dead.  Let’s have dinner. SH_

Irene’s sharp nails sink into her palm as she chokes on smoke.  She flicks the cigarette away and stares at her phone.

Her hands vibrate as another text comes through.

_We don’t have to do dinner.  But I need to talk to you immediately. SH_

_Why? s_ he types.

_Do you expect me to beg? SH_

After five minutes, her phone shakes again, and she crooks a smile.

_I need your help. SH_

 

_  
_

*            

It doesn’t bother him how the damp soil clings to the front of his pants where he’s kneeling, or that the beginnings of sunburn sting his neck.  The dirt gives under his pressing fingers, and he decides it’s a good enough spot as any.

No plodding footsteps ring out in the distance.  Solitude enfolds him.  The birds, perched high in the boughs, are the only witnesses to what must be done.

The shovel pierces the surface.  He digs until the sun rises high, and he doesn’t let the shaking of his hands deter from each controlled, firm shovelful.  When the hole looks deep enough, he raises his shirt hem to his brow, wiping away the perspiration.  The sun beats down strongly, and despite the refreshing wisp of wind, sweat trickles down his body.  But he’s achingly cold inside.  The ice floods through his veins, and his fingers burn as if nipped by frostbite.

Grunting, he hefts the body bag into his arms and drops it carefully into the ground, making sure it lies straight.  Reaching for the shovel, he jabs it deep into the dirt until it’s standing upright.  He pats down his knees, shaking out his pants, getting the rest of the loose dirt off.  When there’s nothing left for him to straighten, he eyes the bag in the ground and feels his chest constrict.

“Well, Boss,” he chokes out.  His voice sounds strange and hollow, the only sound in the eerily silent forest.

“I don’t know what to say.  You’d probably think I’m stupid for saying anything at all.  You know… _sentimentality_.”

He barks an anguished laugh.

“But you’re not here, so I guess no one will ever know.”

Pausing, he lets his eyes trace where the face is obscured by fabric. 

“It’s just me.  I’d ask your family to come, but I don’t know where they are.  I don’t know if they’re still alive.  But I suppose even someone like you has a mother and father.”

Suddenly self-conscious, he bites his lip and tries to wrap things up.

“You weren’t easy, to put it lightly.  But you were human after all.  You can rot.”

For days, after he’d taken the body from the rooftop, he’s stood vigil, shaking him occasionally, gently cleaning the blood from the back of his head, waiting to see if he’d suddenly twitch and blink him up at him with that familiar crazed grin.  But he hadn’t.  After the third day, he’d zipped up the body bag and finally let himself sleep off the mixture of exhaustion, fear, and relief.

“And you did rot.  So now…goodbye.  I’ll try to come visit you when I can.  I marked that tree over there.”

He points into the distance.

“So I’ll be able to find you.”

His throat begins to well up, and he gulps, forcing the grief down as best he can.

“I’ll…miss you.  Thanks for taking me in.  I’m glad I knew you.”

Silence pulses, heavy and woven, and it seems as if the whole world goes still.  When a bird call suddenly pierces the quiet, he picks up the shovel and fills in the hole.

Sinking to his knees once more, he carefully pats down the soil until the grave is firmed up.

Leaning his forehead against the surface, he whispers, “Bye, Jim,” and presses a kiss against the grave before he loses the nerve.

And blinking back tears, Sebastian Moran rises to his feet and wonders what the hell he’s going to do now.

 

 

 

 

*            

_Stay put for a few hours.  I’ll send a car that will take you to a private plane.  Talk soon._

Sherlock tucks his phone back into his pocket and stretches out on Molly’s couch.  She’s gone to his funeral, promising him that she’ll give a convincing performance.

“It has to look real,” he’d said firmly, shaking her.

“And would you check—”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she’d said.  “I’ll check on John.”

“Let me know if he’s—”

“I will.”

Sherlock traces the pattern on the cushions, his mind strangely blank.  With nothing to do but wait, and no immediate plans to be made, all he can do is try to ignore the agonizing clawing in his chest.  The worst thing to do would be to think of John, so he lets his mind wander. 

Scanning the room, he notices the small aquarium in the corner.  His legs swing over the couch, and he goes to the tiny tank filled with bright yellow and speckled blue fish.  They dart around rocks, swallowed up by crevices and softly swaying plants.  His reflection swims against the surface, and a memory suddenly jolts him back.

 

 

 

 

Mycroft’s tank is twice as large, and there are two of them, both glowing softly in the dim study.  After his father died, a teenage Mycroft had taken over the office, replacing the heavy, ponderous law volumes with heavy, ponderous biographies of monarchs and high-profile government figures. 

A nine-year old Sherlock sits nervously in the leather chair, itching his scabby knees, while Mycroft settles in behind the oak desk.  His brother folds his fingers sternly, and Sherlock feels a quick pang of fear, although he’s done nothing wrong as far as he knows.

“Mycroft?” he asks in a small voice.

“Relax.  You aren’t in trouble.”

Despite the reassurance, the tenseness in his shoulders doesn’t lessen any.

“Where did you hear that word?” his brother asks after a while.

“Which one?”

“The one I heard you muttering while you were checking my dictionary.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock had gone straight to Mycroft’s bedroom after school that day, pulling the thick, worn dictionary from the bookshelf.  Mycroft had found him not much later, flipping the pages furiously until he’d gotten to the C’s. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft had snapped.  “The study.  Now.  And give that to me.”

He’d wrenched the book away from his younger brother, who’d recoiled his hand as if burned.

“Timothy wrote it on the board when the teacher left the room.  He got in trouble when she came back.  What does it mean?”

Mycroft clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Con—dom?” Sherlock’s young voice sounds out the word slowly, and Mycroft’s lips pinch.

His brother sighs, rubbing his temples rhythmically.  “I suppose you’re old enough now.”

And Mycroft proceeds to tell him, in clinical terms and in vivid detail, about sexual intercourse in all its forms.

When he’s finished, Sherlock, bug-eyed, has sunk deep into the leather, his hands tightly gripping the arms of the chair. 

“Don’t you have any questions?”

“That sounds… _disgusting_.”

Mycroft crooks an eyebrow.  “Yes.  The idea takes some getting used to.”

“So—do you have to be—married?  To—do that?”

“No.  Anyone can have sex.  And being married doesn’t necessarily ensure that the act will happen.  People with unsatisfying marriages may not have sex at all.  Or just rarely.”

“Hm.”  Sherlock steeples his small fingers, his brow knitted in thought.  “I don’t think I’d want to…have sex if I were married.   Is that strange?”

“Not at all.  You can do whatever you want, Sherlock, although you may change your mind in the future.  You don’t have to get married or be in a relationship.  If you do, however, you’ll want to make sure that you share love with someone who treats you kindly.”

“Not like Mummy and Dad,” Sherlock says immediately.  “I wouldn’t want a marriage like that.”

Mycroft’s face drops.  “No,” he agrees solemnly.  “That would not be good.”

His little brother turns his head back to the fish tanks, watching the creatures swirl around the green water in elegant, loping circles.  Words swell on the tip of his tongue, slowly forming.

Suddenly, his young face brightens, and he flashes a grin at his brother.

“I’ve got it,” he says with sudden enthusiasm.  “I’ll just marry you.”

Mycroft blanches.  “What?”

“I love you, Mycroft.  I’ll just marry _you_ when I grow up.  And we don’t have to do the…sex…thing.”

“Sherlock,” his brother says uneasily.  “We can’t marry each other.  That’s called incest—and it’s morally wrong.”

Sherlock’s face falls.  “Why?”

“Family members cannot marry.  Reproduction between relations usually results in births with disastrous side-effects.”

“But we wouldn’t be able to reproduce.”

“It’s still—frowned upon—by society.”

Sherlock shrugs.  “I don’t care what society thinks.”

Mycroft stares him as if he’s grown a second head. 

“Well, if we’re done here...”  Sherlock scoots off the edge of the chair and leaves the study, humming softly.   

Mycroft sits staring at the empty chair for a long while.

 

 

 

 

*            

“My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective.  What might we deduce about his heart?”

 

 

 

 

John Watson’s heart feels like it’s being digested at the bottom of his stomach.  Mrs. Hudson holds out a plate piled high with cold snacks, but he shakes his head, glaring holes into his glass of wine.  He sits in his usual chair.  The one across from him remains empty, although the imprint in the seat makes it seem like a ghost might be lounging there, plucking silently at violin strings.

Behind him, Molly and Greg stand awkwardly, glancing at the mess of research piled haphazardly on the table.  Mrs. Hudson unnecessarily dusts off some of the lab equipment in the kitchen.  Mycroft simply stares at the wallpaper pattern, eyes glazed over and mouth slack.

They have all just returned from the funeral, and at Mrs. Hudson’s suggestion, the handful of them have reconvened at 221B Baker Street for _just a bite to eat, perhaps some tea…on second thought, maybe wine_.

But John wants them gone.  He wants to search the flat for some clue—a scrawled message, a letter hiding under the mattress, an encrypted file on his laptop—anything to blot out—to disprove—the finality of the warm pool of blood on the sidewalk.

Looking up, the first thing he sees is Mycroft, and his fists clench despite his resolve to be civil.  But for how different the brothers may look, some echo of Sherlock’s features pull at Mycroft’s face, and he snaps.

“I was wrong about Sherlock,” he bites out, and Mycroft blinks at him.  “Before he—I—I called him a _machine_.  I was wrong.”

John levels furied eyes at the tall man.  “ _You’re_ the machine.  You’re ice.  Look at you, after what you did to him.  You can’t even change the expression on your face…for your bloody _brother_?”

Lestrade steps forward, puts a heavy hand on John’s shoulder.  “John…”

He flinches away, not breaking eye contact with Mycroft.  And then suddenly, the man’s mask begins to crack.  Lips quiver and eyes crease, and shockingly, a terrible, wounded gurgle begins to rise from the man’s throat.  Without a word, he spins on his heel, ripping his umbrella away from its resting place against the wall, and all but runs down the stairs. 

John flinches when the door slams, and he wonders how many times he could possibly be wrong about the Holmes brothers. 

 

 

 

 

*            

As the plane begins descending into Switzerland, his head snaps up, and he rubs the bleariness from his eyes.  The stewardess pulls back the curtain and hands him a glass of ice water. 

“We’ll be landing in a minute.  Ms. Adler will be waiting for you when we touch down.”

“Thank you,” he says curtly.  Sherlock throws the drink back, wincing at the cold, but it feels good after chain-smoking an entire pack of cigarettes. 

His stomach drops as the plane angles down even further.  At the feeling of falling, his hands begin to tremble, and he has to force the vomit down.  To distract himself, he thinks over what he’ll say to Irene.

When the plane has landed, he climbs down the steps, a bag slung over his shoulder.  A black car with dark windows slides silently in front of his path and rocks to a halt.  The driver gets out, tips his hat with a “sir,” places his bag in the trunk, and holds the door open for him.

“Sherlock!  Come.  Sit.”  She pats the space next to her, scraping slightly with long, red fingernails, and he settles in, allowing her to press a soft peck to his cheek. 

“Back to my place,” she orders the driver, and the man nods his assent. 

And in that moment, when she turns her head and his nose buries into the crook of her neck, he inhales a sickeningly sweet whiff of perfume.  In his gut, he knows that he’s smelled it before. 

They drive on silently for a while.  But then he remembers, and his eyes widen.  A flash of adolescence and long, sweaty summer days pull at the edges of his mind.

 

 

 

 

After he skips up all the steps to the porch, his mother pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.  She practically lifts him off his feet, despite her small stature, and he laughs, burrowing his nose into her hair. 

“ _Mummy_!”

“Sorry, Sherlock.”  She puts him down and squeezes his shoulders tightly, her eyes tearing up. 

“Look how you’ve grown.”

She grasps his chin, taking in his features with tender grey eyes.  Sherlock’s hair has grown longer, and his cheekbones jut out sharply in the absence of baby fat.

“You look older than the last time I saw you.”

“I’m still sixteen, Mother.”

“I know.  But you’ve grown at least a foot since Christmas.  _Look at you_!”

Sherlock, laughing, finally shrugs her off.  “I’m glad I’m home.  Boarding school is _tedious_.  I plan to set up camp in the library this summer.”

“Mm-hm.  Of _course_ you will.  Now go on, go say hi to your brother…he’s down by the pond.  I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you, since he missed Christmas this year.  I’ll go start making lunch for the three of us.”

Sherlock nods, leaping down the steps.  Once he reaches the grass, he hesitates before calling up to her. 

“New lipstick?”

Her hand stills on the doorknob, and she quirks a smile back at him.  “Observant as always.  Yes!  It’s called _Passion Dangereuse_.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows.  “A bit scandalous for you, isn’t it?”

His mother laughs again, shooing him off, and closes the door.

Taking the familiar path down the hill, he jogs slightly, being careful not to twist his ankles on the protruding rocks and sharp dips.  Past the grove of lush maple trees, the pond comes into view, and beside it, Mycroft’s tall, dark form. 

Sherlock’s breath catches at the vision of the man, standing up straight, looking out across the water in his starched shirt and black trousers.  It’s been almost a year since they’ve spoken face-to-face, and Sherlock’s chest aches at the sight.

As if on cue, Mycroft turns and shields his face from the beating sun.  Sherlock is too far away to make out the expression on his brother’s face, so he breaks into a sprint.  The warm summer wind whips against his face as he runs, sending his messy curls flying like a halo around his head.

When Sherlock is about ten feet away, he slows, nearly stops.  Mycroft’s handsome browned face contrasts shockingly with bright blue eyes.  He doesn’t know how to do this, how Mycroft will receive him.  Cautiously, Sherlock toes forward, as if approaching a wild animal.  But Mycroft closes the space between them with a few long strides and embraces his brother tightly. 

As he tucks his chin into Mycroft’s shoulder, he realizes that he’s almost as tall as him now, and a clandestine pleasure blossoms inside his ribcage.  _I am growing up…and he can’t deny it any longer._

Burying his nose into Mycroft’s neatly-pressed shirt, he inhales the familiar scent of his detergent and the distinctive spice of skin underneath.  His smile cracks his face, and he shifts his nose up Mycroft’s neck.  And there, on the collar, he catches the faintest trace of honeyed flowers.  His body freezes, and Mycroft releases him.

“I know how you hate me pointing out the obvious, Sherlock.  But you’ve grown…so much.”

But Sherlock feels as though he’s been doused with icy water.  He cannot derive joy from his brother’s warm voice or nostalgic words.  Despite his self-control, he feels his shoulders hunch defensively. 

“What’s her name?” he slings at Mycroft, whose mouth hangs open in confusion. 

“What—”

“Don’t deny it,” Sherlock spits impatiently.  “You saw her this morning, before you drove here.  I can—I can smell her perfume on your shirt.”

Mycroft glances down at the offending fabric, then back up to his brother’s livid features.

“She—well.  She’s nobody, Sherlock.  She’s just someone I—”

But it’s too late.  With a wrench that seems to rend the very air, Sherlock takes off across the field, his limbs flapping wildly in his wake. 

Mycroft sighs, cradling his head in his hands, watching his brother’s vanishing form with grave eyes.

 

 

 

 

They dance around each other all summer, oil and water, never touching and hardly speaking since that first day.  Mycroft works most of the time, sometimes staying in London for a week’s stretch, but he returns home quite often, with the intention of sitting Sherlock down to discuss what happened. 

But each time Mycroft pulls into the driveway, he can feel Sherlock’s elusive dance in his bones, knowing he’ll be lucky to even glimpse his brother over the next few days.

His mother’s face grows haggard.  She ghosts the halls in her dressing gown and slippers, pounding on the locked library door, begging Sherlock to come out. 

That night, for the first time, she sets the table for only two, finally accepting that Sherlock just _isn’t_ going to come down for dinner.  Such a gesture of defeat from a known optimist like her is more disheartening than he’d like to admit.

Mycroft picks up his salad fork and picks uninterestedly at the lettuce.  They eat their meal wordlessly, and it almost feels like silence has sprouted a head and become their third dinner guest.

“Mycroft,” his mother says suddenly.

He sets down his soup spoon slowly and pats at his lips with his napkin.

“Yes, Mummy?”

“You two aren’t children anymore.  I don’t _understand_.  It seemed like you two were so excited to see each other at the beginning of summer.” 

Her voice cracks.  “I’m so sick of the fighting—the broken family.  I thought all of that was over when your father left.”

Mycroft reaches forward, intercepting her hand.  “Mummy.  I’m sick of it, too.”

He can’t stand the sight of her swollen eyes and brittle hair, streaked through with strands of grey.  Resolve pulses through his veins, and determination long absent suddenly snaps him out of the dreary summer haze.

“He’s going to talk to me—right _now_.  Even if I have to break down the goddamn door.”

Pulling her hand to his mouth, he gives it a quick kiss.  He stands up and flings his napkin to the table with a flourish. 

“Mycroft, wait—”

“I’ve waited long enough.”

And with that, he pushes in his chair and tears up the staircase with a purposeful stride.

 

 

 

 

“Go away.”

“Open the door.”

“No.  Go away.”

“This isn’t some bloody game, Sherlock.  You’re sixteen-years old.”

No answer.

“Open the door before I _break_ it down,” he says coldly.  “And I _will_.”

The lock clicks open softly, and the door sways.  He hears Sherlock’s quiet steps scattering across the carpet, and when he closes the door behind him, he spots brown curls peeking over a monstrous stack of books. 

Mycroft sighs, taking the pile of books in his arms and dumping them on the floor. 

“Sherlock, this _has_ to stop.  You can’t keep doing this to Mummy.  _Or_ me.”

His brother’s face darkens, and Mycroft slams his fist on the table, making Sherlock jump.

“Would you _stop it_?  She isn’t my girlfriend—never was.  It was a stupid one-night stand.  _Get over it_.”

“But I want—”

“You want _what_?  For me to be celibate?  Do you want me to put my fucking cock in a box and give you the damned key?”

Sherlock’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.

“N-no,” he finally stutters, his mouth twisted in a pained grimace.

“Then _what_?”

“Y-you.”

Mycroft goes still as Sherlock’s eyes well up.

“I want you, Mycroft.”

His brother gets up tentatively, wringing his hands, and he steps towards Mycroft and softly traces his cheekbone.  When Mycroft closes his eyes, Sherlock grows bolder, draping himself across his brother’s lap. 

“Can I?” he whispers, leaning forward.

Mycroft is frozen—can’t force himself to move—even when he feels a soft exhale over his mouth and smells his brother’s tea-laden breath.

A nervous pressure of lips against lips, and when Mycroft still doesn’t move, Sherlock swallows, grasping the back of Mycroft’s head, threading his hand through his hair.  He glides firm lips over Mycroft’s, silky, hot. 

And when he starts begging through each kiss, “Please…kiss…me,” Mycroft’s mind goes blank, and he responds enthusiastically, taking over.  He bites the soft swell of Sherlock’s lower lip, nips at his chin, and goes back to devouring that young mouth until Sherlock is flushed and gasping.  He plunges his tongue through those open lips, tasting and smooth and wet and _yes_.  

Only when his jaws grow tired of the thrusting does he slow.  Pulling back, he begins laving Sherlock’s neck, tonguing the sharp jut of his collarbone.  Taking a fistful of curly hair, he yanks back his brother’s head and gazes into those pupils, blown so wide that there’s hardly any trace of icy blue.  

He yanks open the front of Sherlock’s pajamas, tearing at buttons.  Untouched, unclaimed ivory skin heaves under his hands, and he sucks an ugly red mark onto that smooth stomach.  Sherlock’s erection pokes into his shoulder, and eyes darkening, Mycroft lifts him by the bum and shoves him onto the tabletop, knocking over the teacup and saucer, raining cold Earl Grey onto the carpet.  He reclaims Sherlock’s lips, devouring his mouth, as he pulls himself from his trousers.  Mycroft twists his hand over the head of his leaking cock and groans.

Sherlock’s bottoms are roughly ripped down, and when Mycroft takes him into his hand, pumping ruthlessly, Sherlock’s back arches like a bowstring as he floods over Mycroft’s fingers. 

Mycroft bites into his neck, hard, but Sherlock can only shudder weakly, and after five hard strokes, he’s roaring, shooting over his brother’s chest and neck and cheek.

He gasps like he’s drowning, curling his fingers into soft brown hair.  His forehead rests heavily against Sherlock’s, and they pant together, sharing sloppy, clinging kisses until his heartbeat begins to slow down.

When Mycroft finally raises his eyes and sees that dribble of come— _his_ come—dangling from his baby brother’s chin, he begins to shake violently.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, deathly afraid.

Mycroft stares at Sherlock likes he’s a stranger.  Fear and shock war in his face.  He takes a step backwards and nearly trips over the stack of books. 

Mutely, he zips his pants back up, wiping his hand on the fabric. 

Sherlock steps forward.  “Don’t—”

But Mycroft has already fled, leaving the door swinging like a flapping tongue. 

As the hinges slow, Sherlock sinks to his knees and begins picking up the shattered shards of the teacup, not noticing how they pierce into his trembling hands. 

 

 

 

 

“I’m so happy you’ve joined us for dinner, Sherlock,” his mother says softly, almost afraid that one wrong word could send him dashing back upstairs.

“It looks delicious, Mummy,” Sherlock smiles, draping the napkin over his lap.

Mycroft hums in agreement.

The family eats contentedly, pausing only to speak between dinner and dessert. 

“Your favorite,” their mother says, setting a plate in front of Mycroft.  “Red velvet cake made from scratch.  With _cream cheese icing_.”

Mycroft’s eyes bulge.  “Mummy, you know I’m trying to lose weight.”

“I know.”  She winks at Sherlock.  “But don’t you think tonight calls for a bit of celebration?”

“If you insist,” Mycroft says, scooping a large piece into his mouth. 

His eyes glaze over, and he tries to muffle his moan.

Their mother laughs, and even Sherlock can’t hold back a crooked smile.

When dinner is over, Mycroft and Sherlock stack the plates and take them into the kitchen.  Side by side, Sherlock washes and rinses while Mycroft dries. 

Once everything is clean and returned to their proper places, Sherlock turns to his brother.  “I think I’ll go to bed now.”

Mycroft doesn’t look at him.  “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

Sherlock kisses his mother on the forehead and goes upstairs for a shower.

 

 

 

 

A sliver of light falls across Sherlock’s face, and he sits up in bed, letting the covers slide down his body.  Mycroft’s shuttered face glances in the doorway.

“Sherlock?”

“Come in.”

He moves over in the bed, turning the corner of his covers back, and Mycroft slides in next to him.  They lay, facing each other, features barely visible in the pale strips of moonlight.

“It isn’t wrong, you know,” Sherlock whispers.

He reaches out tentatively, stroking the hair off Mycroft’s forehead.  His brother sighs, reaching an arm out.  He pulls Sherlock against him, smoothing fingers over his naked back and shoulders.

Sherlock’s ear presses into Mycroft’s chest, and through the thin fabric, he hears the steady pump of his heartbeat. 

“Do you love me, Mycroft?  Not just as a brother, but—” 

“Yes, Sherlock.”

He cups Mycroft’s face, softly kisses him. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

Without warning, Mycroft rolls on top of him, pinning his wrists back against the bed.  He presses kisses to Sherlock’s neck, works his way down over his sternum, his stomach.  Without hesitating, he hooks his fingers inside the waistband of Sherlock’s pajamas and underwear, working them off.  Sherlock is already achingly hard.

“What are you—”  But Sherlock can only throw his head back at the gust of warm breath over his cock.  Mycroft slides him into his mouth, sucking firmly.  He moans, holding tightly to Mycroft’s hair. 

With an obscene pop, Mycroft’s mouth lifts off, and he hastily removes his own clothing.  Mycroft reaches into his pants pocket, taking out a condom and a bottle of lube.

Suddenly, slick fingers push at Sherlock’s entrance, and he cries out against the coldness on his skin.

The first finger breaches, and Sherlock’s stomach flutters in discomfort.

“Push down on it,” Mycroft says breathily, and Sherlock tries.

Without giving him time to adjust, Mycroft adds a second finger, and this time, Sherlock’s eyes blink back tears.  Mycroft rips the condom wrapper open with his teeth, and before Sherlock can tell what’s happening, he feels the blunt head of Mycroft’s cock fitting over his hole. 

He grips his brother’s shoulder, hard.  “Wait.”

Mycroft stops, the pleasure blazing in his eyes.

“Stop, Mycroft.  I’m sorry.  I just—don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

His brother blinks once, twice.  “Not ready,” he says flatly.

“N-no.  Not yet.  I’m s-sorry.”

Mycroft’s mouth twists, and then he’s ripping off the condom, sitting on Sherlock’s chest, and the weight is so heavy he can barely breathe.

“So,” Mycroft whispers harshly, “You tell me I can’t fuck anyone but you.  You infect me with this— _sickness_.  You throw yourself at me in our family home, with our _mother_ downstairs. And now you won’t let me fuck you.  Because you’re not _ready_?”

Sherlock’s lips quiver, and Mycroft begins stroking himself in earnest now, slapping his cock against Sherlock’s chin. 

“You want me to be with you,” Mycroft jeers, “But I can’t even fuck you.  What’s the _point_?”

His toes curl, and then he’s coming, all over Sherlock’s lips and chin.  He rests his hand against the headboard, panting, and when he looks down, he sees the look in Sherlock’s eyes.  Mycroft smears the come across his cheek with his cock, wipes it over tear tracks. 

He climbs out of bed, pulling up his trousers. 

“Is that what you wanted, Sherlock?” he asks.

But his brother won’t look at him.  Sherlock turns over on his side, his back facing Mycroft, and curls into a fetal position.

After he buttons up his shirt and slides on his loafers, he opens the door.  When Mycroft looks back, he sees the skinny form shaking beneath the sheets.  Surprisingly, he can’t feel a thing.

 

 

 

 

The last weekend before Sherlock goes back to school, Mycroft asks him to meet him in his study.  Sherlock goes without protest, curling up in the worn leather chair.  The fish tanks in the corner have sat empty for years, so he examines his chewed up fingernails instead.

Mycroft sweeps into the room, impeccably dressed and groomed as always.

“Thank you for meeting me, Sherlock.  I wanted to see you off.”

Sherlock stares up at him silently. 

Clearing his throat, Mycroft straightens his collar and takes a seat.

“I think you’re old enough now for a bit of realism.”  He pauses, and when Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, he proceeds.  “I’m going to keep it brief—I don’t need to explain anything to you.  But I do have a bit of advice to pass on before you return to school.”

He drums his fingertips over the desk.  “When it comes to life, you need to remember these things, because they will protect you.”

_Drum drum_

“All lives end.”

_Drum drum_

“All hearts are broken.”

He leans in. 

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

Sitting back, Mycroft watches the words sink in.  Sherlock dips his head, closes his eyes, mouth thinned in an impossibly straight line.  Mycroft waits for an eternity, almost certain that he can hear the high-speed buzzing inside that brain.

When Sherlock looks back up, a chill runs through Mycroft’s body.  All traces of the boy he knew are gone.  He rises to his feet, and Mycroft does the same.  The Sherlock staring back at him is a cold, composed, closed-off man. 

“Mycroft,” the man acknowledges, extending his hand towards his brother.  Mycroft returns the handshake firmly, and when their fingers part, he feels a fluttering in his chest, then a deep burning.  Something inside himself is curling up to die.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

His brother strides out of the room, gathers his bags, and heads down to the car that will take him back to school.

They don’t speak again for seven years.

 

 

 

 

*            

 “Despite the circumstances, you’re looking surprisingly well, Mr. Holmes,” Irene smiles.

He twists the pasta around his fork and quirks a smile back.

Her voice goes low with concern.  “But when’s the last time you ate?”

He shrugs, taking a small bite.  “Food is tedious.”

“If I’m going to be helping you,” she continues, “then you’re going to need to start taking better care of yourself.”

Sherlock grunts.  “You sound like...”

“Is that a good thing?”

He doesn’t answer.

She slides a file folder over the tablecloth and clicks her sharp red nails against its surface.

“Eat all of your food, and you get this tonight.”

He pauses, wiping his mouth.

“I presume these are details about Moriarty’s network.”

“Name, pictures, locations, habits—everything you’ll need.”

He smirks and takes a larger bite.

 

 

 

 

*            

“I’m glad you came over, Mycroft,” John calls from the kitchen.  The kettle’s just boiled, and he opens the fridge for some milk. 

“It’s not a problem, John.”

He hears the scraping of a chair and knows that Mycroft has chosen the table, rather than the armchairs.  A small part of him is relieved.

John sets down the tray carefully, and after the tea has time to steep, Mycroft insists on pouring. 

“My mother and father were unusual people,” he says, stirring in a sugar cube.  “This may not be that unusual, but Father always poured.” 

Mycroft raises the cup to his lips and blows.  “After he left, I took over that duty.”

John adds a splash of milk and takes a slow sip of the steaming brew. 

When he sets the cup down on the saucer, he purses his lips and looks up at Mycroft.

“The reason I—asked you to come tonight.  I wanted to apologize.”

“For?”

“For what I said to you…after the funeral.  I was angry…and sad.  I lashed out at you.  I’m sorry.”

Mycroft waves a hand.  “It was already forgiven.”

John coughs, shifting.  “Right.  Well, that’s good.”

The older Holmes studies him quietly, tapping his mouth with his fingers.

“John,” he says thoughtfully, “You were good for him, you know.  Something about you…made him human again.”

“Mycroft.  If you don’t mind me asking…what happened between you two?  I always assumed it was some kind of joke—or just you two being melodramatic and mysterious—but that’s not the case, is it?”

John leans forward.  “Was the feud really that bad?”

The other man sighs, setting his chin in his hands.  “We used to be close.  Sherlock wasn’t always like this.  But something happened…a long time ago.”

“Did it happen because your father left?” John interrupts.  “Sherlock talked about him once.  I always got the impression that afterwards—he looked up to _you_ as a certain…father figure.”

Eyes glaze over.  Mycroft’s mouth wavers.  “What?  He did?”

John doesn’t know what he’s said to upset the other man so much, so he backtracks hastily. 

“That’s just me assuming.  Well.  Just forget I said that.  I don’t know anything about it, do I?”

Mycroft sniffs, folding his hands in his lap.

“I can’t talk about it, John.  I would dishonor him by telling you about our past.  If I were ever to discuss what happened…it would be with him.”

Despite the effort, his voice breaks.  “And not before I told him that I was sorry.”

 

 

 

 

*            

“You _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?”

“ _At_ him.  He never replies.”

“No, Sherlock _always_ replies.  To _everything_.  He’s Mr. Punchline.  He will outlive God trying to have the last word.”

 

 

 

 

“Dominatrix…”

“Don’t be alarmed.  It’s to do with sex.”

“Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

A sneer.

“How would you know?”

It is only because John sits beside him that he doesn’t fly over the table at Mycroft, choking him, beating his face into the floor until there’s nothing left but bloody bits.

Instead, Mr. Punchline says nothing, and it kills him.

 

 

 

 

*            

“I assume you’ll be off tomorrow, then?” Irene asks, sauntering into the room with her dark wet hair and black-gold robe.  She leans forward, exposing a strip of smooth skin.

“Assuming you’ll provide the transportation.”

“That can be arranged.”

She kneels at his feet, a position so familiar that he doesn’t have to ask what’s on her mind.  And there—dilated pupils, gazing widely up into his face.

“What shall we do then, Mr. Holmes…with the rest of our evening?”

Sherlock has been expecting this.  A part of him is exasperated by the predictability, but he might have been concerned if she hadn’t tried.

“You still want to know,” he says ironically, “Have I ever ‘had’ anyone?”

Irene smiles furtively, her cherry red lipstick an inch from his nose.

“Well…have you?”

Sherlock shifts, looking anywhere but her eyes.

“In a way.  When I was younger.”

Irene startles, pulling back slightly.  “ _Really_?”

“I was sixteen,” he answers dryly.  “An experiment with disastrous results.”

“Would you want to correct that experiment?”

He sighs.  “It seems I don’t have a choice in the matter anyway.”

“There’s always a choice,” she purrs, stroking her hands up his calves.

“No.”  He shakes his head.  “Not always.”

A beat. 

“You were hurt…very badly.  Weren’t you?”

Tipping her chin up, he wraps his hand around her slender neck.  “Don’t ask me anymore about it.”

They kiss.  He feels no spark, no pull, but he kisses her anyway.

And when she sinks down into his lap and unzips his pants, he doesn’t protest.

 

 

 

 

Afterwards, they lay sprawled out over the couch, her lithe body wrapped up in his arms. 

“Do you want to get drunk?”

“Tonight’s a good as night as any,” he rumbles, and she untangles herself and goes over to the bar. 

“Whiskey, I think.”

Irene fills up two large glasses, at least seven shots in each.  Sherlock takes his glass without comment and cherishes the sharpness on his tongue and the slow burn down his chest.

“And what shall we toast to, Mr. Holmes?” she asks, sinking down beside him.

“Second chances,” he replies without hesitation.

Irene raises her glass.  “I can drink to that.”

Uncaring, irresponsible, he drains the entire snifter in several large-mouthed gulps.

“Oh my.  You’re a serious drinker, aren’t you?”

“Just tonight,” he coughs, wiping the whiskey from his chin.  Sherlock retrieves the bottle and pours again.

“So will we be sharing our deepest, darkest secrets then?”

“I doubt it,” he answers.  “Alcohol doesn’t affect me like most.”

“Yes, you’re not most.”  Irene steals the bottle from him and takes a swig, stretching her red lips obscenely around the top.  Her hand rests gently on his knee.

“Did you sleep with me for practice?”

“What would I be practicing for?”

“John.”

The name hangs suspended over the empty living room—a word he hasn’t heard since he’d said goodbye.

“He isn’t—”

“Yes he is.”  She smiles at him sadly.  “I know this didn’t mean anything to you.  I know you were thinking of someone else.”

“How?”

Irene tucks her feet into his lap.  “Shall I deduce you?”

“Go on then.”

“It was easy.  You kept your eyes shut almost the entire time.  And you were painfully silent.”

Sherlock swirls the whiskey in his glass, looks deep into its amber depths.

“But how do you know I was thinking about…”

“John?”

He winces at the name.

“It’s been written on you—on both of you—since the beginning.  There’s no fooling anybody, Sherlock.”

He throws his drink back, and they gaze silently out the window, taking in the blinking spread of the city.

When his vision starts to blur around the edges, and he’s sunk deeply into the cushions, she lights up, and his nose twitches.

“Marijuana, Irene?”

“Mmm.  Have a hit.  Or two.”

She passes him the joint, and he tokes deeply, five times, in quick succession.  Her face, sluggish in its drunkenness, falters. 

“Oh _no_ , Sherlock.  That wasn’t such a good idea.”

He shrugs as the room starts to spin deliciously.  Sherlock taps his numbed cheeks. 

“That was really strong stuff.  You’re not supposed to mix that much with alcohol.  Tell me if you start feeling…”

But Sherlock has already slumped forward in his seat, drool leaking down his chin and slobbering onto his chest.

“ _Sherlock_.”

But Irene’s voice sounds so distant, already underwater.

The carpet is a magnet, and his head is being jerked into the ground.  The floor meets his nose with a slam, and his arms stretch out in slow motion, grasping blindly for anything to help himself up.  His vision goes dark, and he blindly claws for the light, trying to make out any sound through his buzzing ears.

Sherlock can’t hear a word Irene is saying.  His head is bubbled.  He can barely decipher his own thoughts.  But what he does know, with sudden lucidity, is _I am going to die._

The thought is not profound, not ground-breaking.  But it is different.  Even when he was standing on the ledge, looking down at the pavement below, he knew that he was going to survive.  But this is not a controlled variable.  This is…

Teeth bite hard into the carpet.  Scraping at fabric, at arms, at air, _anything_.  A desperate sob wrenches from the back of his throat.  Unadulterated fear, in all its paralyzing clarity.

_I am going to die.  I am going to die and I’m never going to see John again._

It is this thought, more than anything, that completely overwhelms him.  It is the only thought his brain has room for.  Everything else has been deleted, thrown out of the windows, his palace trashed and burned because now _there is nothing else but this_.

Sherlock realizes that this is the saddest moment of his entire life.  Throughout all the years of boredom, the recklessness, the abuse of his body, he has never realized how desperately he wants to live until now.  Everything he ever wanted to do—see—say.  None of that will ever happen.  Already, he is forgetting the sound of John’s voice, and his heart rends. 

“Help me,” he bellows into the carpet, and though he can’t make out anything, he senses a blur of motion in front of his face.

“What, Sherlock?”

“Help me.”

“Help you up?”

 “No…HELP ME.  _Please_.”

 “Okay, woah there.”  Irene hauls him up and dumps him onto the couch.

“The pot was laced.”

“What?”  Her moving mouth swirls in front of his face.  “No, the pot’s fine.  It’s just the mixture of alcohol and—”

Suddenly, chills shoot down his arms and his muscles seize, sending him into terrible, body-wracking convulsions.  His teeth chatter so violently that he bites into his tongue.

“C-call an a-ambulance,” he begs.

No answer.

“P-please…call somebody.  I’m dying, Irene.  I’m _dying_.”

“You’re not going to die, Sherlock.”  Her voice sounds shockingly unconcerned, stoned and distant. 

“Please.  Call Mycroft.”

Sherlock curls in on himself, crying, convulsing.  His head is being mangled from every direction.

“Call John,” his voice cracks.  “Call John.”

“I will,” she promises.  But she doesn’t move.

“ _Call John_ ,” he wails hysterically, his plea echoing against the walls, loud enough to shake the building to its foundation.  Water leaks out of his nose and eyes.  “PLEASE call John _now_.  _Please_ I want John I want John he would never let me die like you _DON’T LET ME DIE_.”

He is screaming silently, clawing at the couch, at his swimming face and blurring head.

“Look.”  She holds her phone in front of his face.  “I’m going to call John.  Right now.”

He shakes his head weakly.

“No you won’t,” he moans as everything begins to fade.  “You _won’t_.”

And then a flash of white bursts over his vision, and his brother steps in front of him, smart in his suit, twirling his umbrella.

“Mycroft?” 

 

 

 

 

What seems like hours later, after he’s yelled and wept at Mycroft, John, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson—even Moriarty, the room begins to focus back in tiny increments, like the pages of a book turning.

Irene is slumped on the floor with her head thrown back against the couch.

“Irene,” he rasps.  She jolts upright, checking him over.

“If you’re not going to get me help…will you at least stay with me throughout the night?  Make sure I don’t die?”

“You’re not going to die, Sherlock,” she repeats, running her fingers through his hair, tucking a blanket over him.  “But don’t worry…I’ll stay up with you.  Just sleep.”

Sherlock groans.  “No.  If I sleep, I might never wake up.  Don’t let me fall asleep, Irene.  Don’t let me die.”

But her face is already swirling back out of focus.

 

 

 

 

He wakes with a jolt.  His eyes strain at the sun piercing through the living room, golden, vibrant.  Gingerly, Sherlock sits up, wrapping the blanket around his shivering frame.  Throbbing pain pounds through his skull, and his mouth tastes like vomit. 

“I’m alive.”

His deep baritone shimmers through the stale air.

Sherlock bows his head, nearly weeps at the sound of his own voice.  Deliberately, he uncurls his long, thin fingers, and then he traces his features, sliding his fingers up his cheekbones, down the bridge of his nose, over the pout of his lips.  Warm and soft and _alive_.  A gallop of breaths.  A pulse rocketing in his wrist.  Sherlock counts the thumps, presses his lips against blood-thrummed skin.  Legs tingle and stretch, support his weight unsteadily. 

More slowly than usual, he makes observations as he scans the room, taking in the dark vomit stains on the floor, the overturned whiskey bottle, the joint ashed out on the coffee table.  The air reeks of sweat and pot and liquor and desperation.  Nail bites skid across the carpet and the battered sofa.

Sherlock sways on his feet as black dots dance before his eyes, and _then_ —then his brain ignites, blazing.  The pieces collide together in a deafening crash.  A white hot flash rushes up his brain stem and _there_ —an angular female face rises to the surface. 

Irene.  Where is she?

His gut churns hot with incredulity and rage.  But it is obvious why she didn’t get help. 

Of course she would never risk entry of her safe house by people she didn’t thoroughly trust, nor could she dump him in front of a hospital without questions being asked.  And why would she call Mycroft or John, who thought both of them dead?

He slings a whiskey glass across the room as hard as he can and feels the impact of its shatter.

The door clicks open in tandem with the crash, and he slowly turns as she tiptoes skittishly into the room.

“You’re awake,” she breathes. 

She sets a bag down on the table, refusing to look at him.  “I went out for a bit…to get some things.”

Sherlock sifts through the contents.  Lipstick.  Perfume.  Condoms.  Foundation brushes. 

His mouth drops open in disbelief.

“I just needed…something comforting,” she quickly explains. 

Sherlock turns, eyes her with disgust.  Long brown hair pulled into a bun.  The slopes of her cheeks.  Her red lips.  Her made-up eyes and precisely plucked eyebrows.  In less than a second, he knows, deep in his bones, that he despises her. 

There are too many things he wants to say and do.  He aches with the undeniable need to cut her deeply, to make her _burn_.  But that would achieve nothing. 

His hand reaches out, closes tightly around her throat. 

“Look at me, you coward,” he growls, and she does.  Unadulterated fear and shame glisten in her eyes. 

“I _trusted_ you,” he whispers.  With a sinking heart, he realizes that he has already lost.  Everything is crumbling—the walls—his battlements—the protection he’d cultivated years ago in that miserable, sweltering summer.  He lets go of her as if burned.

Sherlock’s mouth opens, closes.  He has to stop this now, before he gets out of hand.  The road ahead weighs on him heavily, and he knows that he’s going to need every piece of help that she can offer. 

He tries to take comfort knowing that Irene won’t matter in the end.  None of this will—not when he goes back to John and…

Their faces, bathed in white, pulse through his mind, and a surge of panic leaves him breathless.

 “Did I…did I say anything?  About Mycroft?”

Irene’s eyes go wide and dart nervously around the room.

“You told your whole life story,” she wheezes, clutching her throat.  “But I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”

He puts his head in his hands and whimpers.  Irene steps forward, places her hand on his forearm. 

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls, yanking his arm away.  “The marijuana.  Was it laced or not?  Some kind of hallucinogen?”

“No,” she says throatily.  “I promise.  I wasn’t affected.  It was the mixture.  But I don’t understand how you saw those things…”

“The brain goes into shock when it’s dying,” he snaps, tucking in his shirt.  He scans the room one last time and sneers. 

“Well, I’ll be off, then.  I need transportation to Hamburg.  I trust you’ll arrange it?”

She nods with averted eyes, handing him the folder. 

“Have a car waiting for me outside.”

Another nod.

“And Irene?” he calls as he reaches the door.

Her voice sounds small and fragile.  “Yes?”

She still won’t look at him.  Fury tears through his body, but that is nothing compared to the terrible anguish of betrayal. 

Irene will probably never apologize for her actions.  Perhaps not for as long as she lives.  And the thought of that is so unbearable that he can’t utter a single word.

Sherlock says nothing as he slams the door.

 

 

 

 

*            

John wrenches awake, shouting out in terror.  He wheezes, chest heaving as if he’s run a marathon.  Ghosts.  He’s running from the softly blurred phantoms that cleave through his mind each time he puts his head to his pillow.  He sinks back down into the bed with his heart pounding in his ears.

It’s always hardest at night, he tries to tell himself.  But something about this dream was different.

When he’d tipped over Sherlock’s broken body, blood slick on his hands, Sherlock had blinked at him for a moment.

John had cried out, cradling that head, slapping at those cheekbones until Sherlock had twitched again, mumbling under his breath.

“What is it, Sherlock?  _What is it_?”

Ice blue eyes fly open and pierce him.  “Call John,” his friend gurgles through the blood pooled in his mouth.  “ _Please_.  Call John.”

He shudders at the memory.  John itches to call Sherlock right now, check up on him.  But then he remembers that Sherlock’s phone is sitting on the kitchen counter.  And Sherlock is dead.

John turns over on his side and tucks his blanket under his feet.  He tries to quiet his racing mind.  But then the sun is flooding through the blinds, and John realizes that sleep has abandoned him for good. 

 

 

 

*            

Sherlock scans the street from the back of the taxi.  Nothing unusual afoot, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.  And that’s what he’s been the past few months: careful—for the first time in his life.  Determined not to get himself killed as he tracks down and silences each of Moriarty’s top men and women.

The man living on the eighth floor—Sebastian Moran—is the last name on Irene’s list, and Sherlock isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s so weary he can barely think straight.  Since that morning he wrenched awake on the couch, blissfully alive, he’s noticed that the old thrills—the once-loved dangers—do nothing for him anymore.  Sherlock’s careful now because he’s _scared_ , and he knows that fear could cloud his judgment and lead to grievous errors.  And the last thing he wants is to have his body sent to John—again.  Not now.  Not when he’s so close he can taste it.

Based on Irene’s information, Moran is currently out of the apartment.  In an hour, he will arrive, and Sherlock will shoot him in the back of the head. 

He hands some money to the driver and exits the car. 

 

 

 

 

When he gets to the eighth floor, he quickly finds the room number and starts picking the lock.  It clicks, and he creaks open the door, feeling the wall with gloved fingers.

Sherlock turns on the light and stares in horror down the barrel of a shotgun. 

“Close the door,” Moran growls in a deep voice, and Sherlock obeys, heart hammering.

“Sit.”  He points to the chair in front of him.  “Give me your gun.”

Sherlock hands it over, and the man pockets it. 

The pictures in Irene’s file don’t do the man justice.  Up close, Sebastian is almost painfully handsome, with his strong jaw, straight nose, and long, dishwater blonde hair. 

 _They could have been brothers_ , he thinks abruptly, and it’s almost too much just to look at him.

“Good.  Now that all of that is taken care of…”  Moran sets down his gun and crosses his hands on the table.  “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Holmes.”

 “Have you.”

“Don’t worry,” he says dryly.  “You haven’t been betrayed.  It’s just that with you traversing the world, picking off my old colleagues...”

Moran gets up and carries over a tea tray.  “Would you like some?”

“Er…what?”

“Tea?”  He pours and hands a cup and saucer to Sherlock.  “I assume you take milk, two sugars?”

Sherlock wordlessly nods. 

Moran laughs darkly.  “Figures.  Same as Jim.”

He adds a splash of cold milk and drops two sugars into the steaming liquid.

The man sits down heavily and takes his own tea in hand.  “Go on, it’s not going to bite.  Why would I poison you if I could just shoot you?”

Sherlock can’t argue with that.  He sticks his tongue out, lapping at the liquid.  Nothing.  Just…high quality Earl Grey.  Puzzled, he looks up at Moran, but the man is just staring into his drink, looking utterly exhausted. 

He waves a hand.  “So, now that you’re here, Mr. Holmes…you’re going to kill me?”

“I was going to.”

“Oh.”  Moran pats the gun in his jacket.  “With this, right?  Well, since that plan’s shot, what now?”

Sherlock crinkles his eyebrows in confusion.  “You want me to point out the obvious?”

“Go on.”

“Well now… _you’re_ going to kill _me_.”

Moran smiles.  “And why would I do that?”

“Because I’m an enemy, and—”

Moran holds up a finger and stops him.  “And that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Holmes.  I have no reason to kill you.  I work for no one but myself now, and I have no quarrel with you.”

“So we’re just going to sit here, drinking tea, not killing each other.”

Moran shakes his head.  “But not only that.  We’re going to sit here and talk about our problem.”

A manic smile shimmers through Sherlock’s mind, and he shivers.  “The final problem,” he whispers.

“Jesus.”  Moran sets down his tea.  “I’m not Jim, okay?”  His face goes ashen, stone grey.  “No, Mr. Holmes.  The problem is what we’re going to do now.”

He leans forward.  “This is how it’s going to be—and I do hope you go along with it.  Neither of us is going to die.  We’re going to talk.  And then you’re going to decide if you’ll accept my help.”

Sherlock clinks his cup back on its saucer.  “You want to _help_ me?  Why?”

Moran drums his fingers on the table.  “You’re destroying Jim’s network…not for kicks, I imagine?  You’re picking us off, one by one, because you’re scared.  You think we’re going to come after your landlady, or the detective, or John.”

There is something familiar, almost sad, in the way he says John’s name.

“Even if you’d succeeded in killing me today, it wouldn’t be over.  There’s more out there—that you or your brother or Adler have no clue about.”

“And you do.”  Sherlock steeples his fingers.  “But you still haven’t answered my question.  Why help me?”

Moran shrugs. 

“Everything that happened to you—that was Jim’s business.  But now Jim is…gone.”

Sherlock notes the hesitation in the man’s voice, files it away for later.

“Most of the time, I didn’t understand why he did the things he did.  He was insane, you know.”  He laughs humorously.  “Yea.  You probably knew.  But he was my…friend.  Now that he’s dead, his war should be over—but it isn’t.  Not for us.”

Moran’s eyes suddenly fill with sadness.  “You may not believe me now…but I know what it’s like to be a John Watson.”

Sherlock stares, truly seeing the man for the first time.

“Don’t you think it’s time you got back to him?”

 

 

 

 

They screech to halt on the outskirts of Sydney.  Moran slaps at Sherlock’s hand, annoyed.

“For the last time, you are _not_ going to change the station.  I’ve had enough classical music to last a lifetime.  Jim already beat me into submission with that.  The two of you spend more time going on and on about the composer and the history than the bloody music anyway.”

Sherlock grumbles, turning up his coat collar.

“Besides, you know _nothing_ about classic rock…it’s actually quite sad.  You’re missing out on—”

“More Than A Feeling” by Boston starts playing, and Moran turns up the radio with a grin.

“You’re missing out on gems like _this_.”

“Dull,” Sherlock quips.

Moran slugs his shoulder.  “Shove off.  Just _listen_ , okay?  Live a little.”

The two men stare out silently into the night, growing drowsy from the heater.  When the song ends, Moran glances over and sees Sherlock’s half-hidden smile. 

“You _liked_ it, didn’t you?”

When Sherlock doesn’t answer, Moran chalks it up as a victory.

“We’ll start getting ready at three.”  He looks down at his watch.  “There’s a cot in the back if you want to nap.  We have a bit of time.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “No.  I’ll keep watch.  You get some sleep.”

“But you’re exhausted.”

“So are you.  I can’t possibly relax with the way my mind is racing.”

Moran shakes his head.  “All right, Sherlock.”

He slides out of the driver’s seat and turns back the curtain separating the front from the back. 

“I’ll know if you change the channel.”

Sherlock waves him off, and Moran collapses into sleep almost immediately.

 

 

 

 

“Sebastian.”

“Yes?”  The man efficiently loads his gun and checks the knife in his boot. 

“How will it be done?”

Sherlock shifts, rustling the bushes they’ve been crouched behind for the past half hour. 

“Be still,” Moran snaps.  “Silencer, obviously.  Get in and out.”

Sherlock hesitates.  “No, I mean…”

Moran notices the tenseness in the other man’s frame and understands.  “ _You’ll_ do it,” he reassures softly.  “It should be you.  It _is_ the last one, after all.”

Sherlock nods, grateful.

“Let’s go.”

The cameras surrounding the hotel’s perimeter have already been disabled, but they still stalk quietly through the dark parking lot, as swift as shadows.  They creak open the backdoor and quickly climb up several flights of stairs. 

Sherlock’s mind stays clear.  There’s no reason to be nervous with Moran beside him, and he knows that even if this ambush doesn’t work, they’ll catch up to her again somehow.  _This is the last one._

Oppressive silence and darkness greet them.  Sherlock knows this is a good sign.  _She probably isn’t expecting us_.  But he can’t help the nervous chill that creeps up his spine. 

Keeping their shoulders pressed to the wall, they scan the main room and begin toeing their way down the hall.  Sherlock reaches the bedroom first, swallows, and gradually curves his neck around the doorframe.

He freezes at the knife pressed against his throat. 

A low voice hisses in his ear, “One move, I spill your blood.  Follow me through the doorway.  _Now_.”

Sherlock lets his neck follow the force of the blade, and suddenly, a wiry forearm wraps around his shoulder as the knife juts more sharply against his skin.

Moran reaches in, clicks on the light, and takes in Sherlock’s paling face and the bright trickle of blood running down his neck.  The woman’s long black hair curls wildly over her face and down her shoulders.  Her eyes are bloodshot, crazed, and her teeth clench in a sharp click.

“Throw down your gun, you traitor,” she hisses, gesturing with her head.

Moran lowers his weapon and tosses it to the floor. 

“ _All_ of them.  Do you think I’m _stupid_?”

Carefully, he pulls a gun out of the elastic of his pants and then the two tucked in his jacket.  He sets each one down under her watchful eye.

“Please—” Sherlock whispers.

The woman twitches the knife, nicking more of his skin.  “Shut up,” she snarls. 

 _There_.  Moran catches the slight tremor in her hand.  _She’s afraid.  Afraid and stupid and not thinking_. 

Slowly, he crouches to his knees. 

“Don’t move,” she yells, the knife shaking hard at Sherlock’s throat.  Sherlock’s eyes are so large that all Moran can see is ice blue. 

“Just sitting down,” he reassures her, holding his hands out in front of him. 

“Don’t move unless I tell you,” she spits.  “Stay right where you are.  If you try anything, he’s dead.”

“I’m not going to try anything,” he promises, bowing his head in submission. 

Her shoulders relax minutely, but that’s all the time he needs.  Lightning-fast, he reaches for the knife in his boot and flings it in a straight line across the room.  The point strikes her right between the eyes, and her body slams back against the wall.  Sherlock wrenches the blade from his neck, gasping, and he turns to the body sprawled out on the floor.  Only the hilt peeks out of her skull, and blood oozes down over her nose and lips. 

“S-Sebastian,” Sherlock wheezes, his knees buckling.  Moran is at his side in an instant, pulling him to his feet, checking on the shallow cut over his throat.

“You’ll be okay,” he says gruffly, smudging the blood with his thumb, his eyes dark.  “Let’s get out of here.  _Now_.”

He drags Sherlock behind him, pulling him down the hall and then the stairs. The cold night air stings when they open the backdoor, and their breath clouds as they sprint to the van.  The men fling open the doors and jump inside.  Moran starts the engine, and they speed off with a screech of wheels. 

Sherlock shakes in his seat, holding his head in his hands.

“Sherlock?"

The man shakes his head, hiding his face from view.  Tremors run up his forearms.  Moran turns his eyes back to the road and gives him some time to collect himself.  

Ten minutes later, “Born to Run” starts blaring from the speakers, and he steals a look at Sherlock through sleepy eyes.  Sherlock is slumped in his seat with his forehead pressed again the glass. 

Sensing the scrutiny, Sherlock shakily reaches over and puts his hand over Moran’s.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

_Baby, we were born to run._

 

 

 

 

“Okay, stop laughing,” Sebastian smiles.  “I know…it’s a bloody tree house.”

Hunched over, grasping his knees, Sherlock shakes with mirth, his ribs aching.  The birds have scattered at the commotion.  They glide across the sky in long arcs and resettle in a cluster of tall trees.

Sherlock and Sebastian use the planks nailed to the trunk to haul themselves up into a roofless, wooden box. 

“You have to admit, Sherlock—it’s a lovely view.”

Miles of untouched, secluded countryside stretch out in the form of rolling hills.  Trees pepper the lush landscape, and the sky shines bright blue, cloudless and jeweled. 

“ _Very_ lovely,” he admits, shuffling out of his shoes.

“Hope you don’t mind.”  Sebastian reaches into his bag.  “Got us some beer.”

Sherlock smirks and motions for one, undoing the first button of his shirt. 

“My parents used to take me up here for summers,” Sebastian says fondly as they clink their beers together.

He points down to the little brown cottage tucked away at the bottom of a steep hill.  “My grandma’s place.  I inherited it after she died.  Now all of this,” he makes a sweeping gesture, “is mine.

Sherlock stares out over the rows of broad-leafed trees.  “You could retire here, raise some chickens.”

Sebastian chuckles.  “Perhaps.”

“I grew up in the country, when I wasn’t in boarding school,” Sherlock says.  “My mother owns a large estate.  Horses.  Pond.  Acres of land.  And most importantly, an extensive library.”

“No wonder you’re so pale.  Should have taken some books outside with you.”

“Outside.  Boring.” 

“Oh shut up.”  Sebastian grins.  “I did raise one chicken.”

“You did?”

“My grandma let me choose my own that summer.  I fed it, watched over it.  Even named it—Tiger.  Because it wasn’t speckled like the others.  There were these strips of red and gold running over its brown back.  Bloody fell in love with the thing.”

“What happened to it?”

“Had to kill it for supper,” Sebastian rasps.  “But I couldn’t.  My dad did it for me.”

“ _You_ couldn’t kill a chicken.”

“I know.”  He pauses, staring wistfully in the direction of the cottage.  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?    Couldn’t even eat it, either, after my mom cooked it up.  Psychologists would have a field day with me, probably.”

Sebastian reaches for the bag again and pulls out two more beers.

“Tomorrow morning, would you take a walk with me?  There’s something I need to do.  But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Of course,” Sherlock answers without hesitation.  “Are you in trouble?”

“No.  It’s not like that.  I just need to visit someone.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, then understands.  “Ah.  So that’s why you brought me out here.”

They silently pull at their beers. 

“You can call me Seb, you know,” he says softly. 

“Is that what he used to call you?”

Sebastian nods.  He leans over and takes a small black book out of the bag, extending it to Sherlock.

“This was his.  It was on him when I took his body—”  His voice drops.  “Anyway, I haven’t been able to look at it yet.  He was always scribbling in that thing.  I doubt I’d understand half the stuff in there anyway.”

Sherlock looks down at the worn moleskine.  “Are you sure you want me to look at this?”

“Go ahead.  You finally beat him, didn’t you?  You deserve it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“But I did it for a different reason than you,” Sebastian whispers.  “Just…look at it.”

Sherlock studies the man’s weary profile.  Long, dirty locks of hair flap over his face.  Thin lines are already beginning to slash across his forehead.  Purple bags swell under his eyes. 

“Seb…you know I’m not him, right?”

The man’s chin shakes.  “I know.  Please just open it.”

Carefully, Sherlock flips back the cover.  He turns a few pages.  Nothing remarkable stands out.  Hastily scribbled dates, names.  He turns another page.  Small pictures of himself and Mycroft are taped down, with the words “The Ice Man” and “The Virgin” scrawled over them in red ink.  He shows the page to Sebastian, who snorts. 

“You really a virgin?”

Sherlock shoots him a glare.

“He persuaded my brother to tell him my life story.” Sherlock says.  “That’s the whole reason this happened.”

“I know,” Sebastian says eventually.  “Do you blame him for all of this?  Your brother?”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “I’ve blamed Mycroft for many things throughout my life.  But this—he did what he thought was best.” 

He twists the cap off another bottle.

“I forgave him, though.  For everything else.  After all that’s happened since the…  I’m not angry anymore.”

Sherlock purses his lips and speaks before he changes his mind.  “I’m not talking about faking my death.  Five months ago, right after it happened, I was staying at Irene’s safe house.  I almost died from an idiotic accident.  The _irony_.”

He snorts.  “Mixing marijuana and alcohol isn’t the best idea.”

“I could have told you that.”

“So could I.  But I wasn’t thinking clearly.  I was reckless and apathetic.  Do you know what the worst part was, though?  Irene didn’t do anything, even when I begged for help.  She just sat in her drugged haze and let me humiliate myself.  She would have let me die.”

His haunted eyes search out Sebastian’s.  “That was the saddest moment of my life.  When I was lying on the floor, convulsing, feeling everything begin to fade.  I didn’t think I—I’d ever see John again.  I thought I’d never get to tell him that I—”

Sebastian grips his shoulder.

“I began having visions of people—John, Mycroft.  I don’t remember what I said, but I raged at them.  Begged.  Wept at them.  It seemed so _real_.  When I woke up the next morning, I could feel all of that hate vanish.  Nothing remained but my purpose…what I would have to do to get back to the people I—love.”

Sherlock swallows, tilts his head at Sebastian.  “So yes.  I forgive Mycroft.  Surprisingly, I even forgive Irene.”

He returns his attention to the book and thumbs through the pages quickly.  More nonsensical notes, sketches of carved apples that make Sebastian smile.  Towards the back, a flash of color jumps out, and his fingers seek the page.  A Polaroid picture taped down at the corners.

“Do you forgive him?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

Sebastian throws his empty bottle through the trees and hears it hit the ground with a small thunk.

“Of course I do.  I shouldn’t.  But I do.  It doesn’t make a bit of difference, though.”  Sebastian’s mouth twists.  “ _What would he have cared?_   Why would he have left if he had…cared?”

Sherlock pulls the tape off the picture and flips it over.

“Seb,” Sherlock whispers.  “You need to see this.”

“What is it?”  Sebastian asks bitterly.  “More apples?”

Wide-eyed, Sherlock shakes his head.  He holds out the picture.

 

“I remember this,” Sebastian chokes.  “Our roadtrip.  We stayed at the beach for a few days—that’s the only time off he could spare.”

His fingers smooth over the photo.  “I can’t believe he kept this.”

“Look on the back,” Sherlock says thickly.

Sebastian turns it over and freezes at Jim’s familiar handwriting:

 

 

Sebastian’s head bangs into the wood as the rest of his body goes limp.  He curls into himself, shoulders shaking brutally as a low keen begins rising from his throat.

Sherlock puts his hand on his friend’s back, and Sebastian lets out a wail that shakes the birds from the branches below.

 

 

 

 

The pile of empty beer bottles clink in the corner of the tree house, jangling in the wind.   Sherlock and Sebastian lie on top of their sleeping bags, curled against each other, gazing through the branches at the blinking stars.  

“Seb?  Do you think you can love more than one person…at the same time?” Sherlock asks, slurring.

“Absolutely.”

“I mean… _in_ love.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve thought about it from every angle.”  Sherlock covers his face with his hands.  “But it doesn’t make sense.”

The chirps of hoards of crickets echo up the tree.

“It _is_ possible.  But there’s only ever _the_ one, though,” Seb whispers.  “You’re born, and if you’re lucky, your childhood years are spent in oblivious wonder.  Sunbeams blur the edges.  You spend hot summer nights lying content in your bed.  You run everywhere.  Always.  And you don’t stop.  Because there’s no reason to ever get tired when you’re that young and have your whole life ahead of you.”

Sherlock hums, closing his eyes, picturing himself hiding under the table during Mother’s tea parties, reading next to the fire with his father, Mycroft hefting him up on his shoulders and sprinting across the field. 

“But then something shifts.” Seb says.  “You grow old.  And the world grows grey.”

_Caring is not an advantage._

“There’s this quote I heard once:  ‘You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.’  Do you think that’s true?”

Sherlock says nothing, but Sebastian can feel the wetness spreading on his shoulder.

“After things change, you spend the rest of your days locked in a car that’s hurtling down the highway.” Seb whispers.  “I call it the long drive.  You go and you go and you never stop because you don’t want to.  Not yet.  You want something _more_.  With each mile you travel, even unconsciously, you’re driving yourself down the road towards something better, something _good_ _enough_.”

He takes a breath. 

“And then you find it, and you stop.  You open the door and see them standing there, so beautiful you can barely look at them.  Everything they do only makes you better, just from _knowing_ them.  They rip off your bloody cloak and let the blinding sunshine pour back in.”

Sebastian tightens his arm around Sherlock, pressing his forehead against the other man’s. 

“And you _know:_ you’re never going to spend another day of your life without them again, not as long as you can help it.”

Sherlock can feel Sebastian’s shuddering breaths rattling inside his own ribcage.

_Not if you can help it._

 

 

 

 

“This way,” Sebastian directs.  Sherlock stoops under a low-lying branch, catching his foot on a half-buried rock.  Sweat trickles down his forehead.  They’ve been walking for quite some time. 

Every once in a while, Sebastian will stop and pull a wildflower up by its roots.  By the time they get there, his hands teem with pale yellow and white. 

He points to a tree with red paint slashed across its middle.  “There’s the marker.”

His eyes scan the ground, and he squats down beside a lopsided, mossy boulder, patting the earth carefully.

“Here he is.”

He rises to his feet, and Sherlock tentatively stands next to him, feeling like he’s intruding.  They stare at the lumpy mound, already run over by grass.

“Have you ever had to bury someone you love?”

Sherlock opens his mouth.

“I don’t mean if you’ve ever lost anyone.  I mean…have you ever had carry them in your arms?  Dig the grave yourself?  Lower them into the ground?”

 Sherlock shakes his head.

“I hope you never will.”

Sebastian gazes down at the grave and locks his hands together.  He hesitates for a moment, but then his voice comes out strong.

“Hello Jim.”

He pauses, almost as if expecting some kind of reply. 

“I hope you’re doing well, wherever you are.”

Kneeling down, Sebastian delicately drapes the bouquet of wildflowers over the grave.

“I have Sherlock here with me.  You’d have a laugh about that wouldn’t you?  Would you call me a traitor?” 

He shakes his head.  “Nah.  You wouldn’t.  He’s my friend.”

Sherlock digs his fingers into Sebastian’s shoulder.

“No matter what you wanted me to believe, despite your coldness and cruelty and the horrible things you made me see and do, I know a part of you cared after all.  Whether you wanted me to or not, I saw the flashes of good in you from time to time—when it was just us.”

Sebastian pauses, his mouth quivering. 

 “It may be too late now, but I wanted to tell you that…”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath.  “That I love you.”

Tears cascade down his cheeks.

Sebastian kneels and kisses the grave.  “Goodbye, Jim.  I’ll see you again soon.”

He turns away and motions for Sherlock to follow.  The two men leave the clearing silently and don’t look back.

They return the way they came, swinging branches out of their way and stepping over anthills.   

“Jim said that I was boring,” Sherlock says suddenly.

Sebastian stops.  “He said that about everybody.”

“He said I was boring…because I was on the side of the angels.”

Sherlock purses his lips.  “But when we were on that rooftop together, I told him that even though I was on the side of angels—he shouldn’t think for one second that I was one of them.”

Sebastian stares at him hard, then steps forward and pulls Sherlock into a tight hug. 

“That’s probably why you drive John crazy,” he whispers into Sherlock’s neck.  “You fool.  Of course you’re on the side of the angels.”

Sherlock grips him back hard.

“What are you going to do now, Seb?”

Sebastian pulls back, smoothes his hand down Sherlock’s shoulder.  “I don’t know.  Travel the world, I guess.  After all, I have a lot of money saved up.”

He shrugs.  “Maybe I’ll go to Japan first.  That’s one place I’ve never been.”

“I’m sure you still have enemies,” Sherlock says.  “I could have Irene arrange for people to follow you, make sure that you remain safe.”

The other man shakes his head.  “No, I’m a big boy.  Didn’t you know that I can take care of myself?  I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

He cocks his head, studying his friend.

“Who knows?  Maybe when I return, you can invite John down here.  We’ll drink some beer in the tree house.”  He smiles.  “Maybe raise a chicken or two.”

Sherlock laughs.  “I’ll try explaining that one to John.”

“What about you?  What are you going to do now?”

“I have some quick business to take care of first.”

“But then you’re going back to John?”

“Of course,” Sherlock breathes.

Sebastian steps forward and cups Sherlock’s chin.  “I’m going to miss you.”

 

 

 

 

*

_Can I come see you?  SH_

Mycroft knocks over his cup of tea.

_How do I know it’s really you?_

The piping hot liquid is soaking into his trousers, but he doesn’t notice.  His heart pounds in his ears, and his head swims.

_Caring is not an advantage.  SH_

Mycroft lets out a breath and puts his head in his hands.

_Can you come tonight?_

_I will be there at 7.  SH_

 

_  
_

*            

They stare at each other in Mycroft’s kitchen, untouched food in front of them.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“How did you survive?” Mycroft asks after a while. 

He studies his brother closely.  A pang rolls through his chest when he sees the hint of gray creeping up Mycroft’s temples.  His navy suit looks rumpled, a few days old.  More lines have cropped up around his eyes and mouth, and he’s lost at least ten pounds since he last saw him.

Sherlock should feel guilty, but a part of him says _I am capable of doing this to him_.

Suddenly, he stands up.

“I’m going to bed now,” he announces.

Mycroft blinks.  “The guest room is upstairs.  There are a few changes of clothes in the drawers.”

“Good night, Mycroft.”

Sherlock stalks up the stairs loudly, and Mycroft sets down his fork and lets his tea go cold.

 

 

 

 

Through the crack in the door, the light pours in, and Mycroft turns over on his side.

“Sherlock?”

His brother shuts the door and crawls under the covers with him.

“What are you—”

Sherlock moves his mouth over his, threading fingers into Mycroft’s hair.  His heart aches with each gentle press of lips.

“I never thought I’d get to tell you—”

“Shhhh….”

He allows himself to be undressed, slowly, deliberately.  Sherlock kisses the curve of his neck, his sternum, his left shoulder.  Mycroft barely flinches at the press of fingers between his legs, the coldness of the lube.  Sherlock stretches him open, never breaking eye contact.  One finger, two, three.  Sherlock wipes his hand on the sheets and covers Mycroft’s body with own.  He groans into his younger brother’s neck, tasting soft, salty skin and damp hair.

Sherlock positions himself and painstakingly thrusts inside him.

Stars explode over Mycroft’s vision. 

“Sherlock, I—”

But his brother claims his mouth, silences him again.  Sherlock hooks Mycroft’s legs over his shoulders and rocks into him so slowly it’s excruciating.  Sherlock lets himself slide out almost completely, then fills Mycroft again with a deep plunge. 

“Please,” Mycroft begs, piercing his fingernails into Sherlock’s back.

He suddenly snaps his hips, drives into Mycroft hard, and they both groan.  Sweat drips from Sherlock’s curls onto Mycroft’s chest. 

When Mycroft begins stroking himself, Sherlock swipes his thumb over Mycroft’s bottom lip, and he stares into Sherlock’s eyes, falling into fathomless ice blue.  Mycroft comes, clenching impossibly tight around his brother, and Sherlock gasps and shatters. 

He falls into Mycroft’s open arms.

“I was going to tell you that I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispers into his hair.

“I know.”

He wraps his arms more tightly around his brother’s sweaty frame.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leans his head down, and they share a long, slow kiss.  The finality in Sherlock’s breath makes him shiver.

“I love you, too, Mycroft.”

 “It could have worked out between us.  If I hadn’t…”

“No, Mycroft.”  Sherlock shakes his head.  “You did what you thought was right…you thought you were protecting me by driving me away.”

“Nothing I ever did was right.  I _ruined_ you, Sherlock.  I destroyed that poor little boy and made you—“

“You didn’t ruin me, Mycroft.  It’s called growing up.”

“I didn’t make you grow up.”  He shuts his eyes.  “I made you cold.”

Sherlock lays his head on his brother’s chest.

“We could still make it work, Sherlock.”

“No,” he whispers.  “We couldn’t.  We fight.  We clash.  It’s in our blood.  All we’ve ever done is tried to control each other…and neither of us will ever budge.”

He looks up into at his brother.

“Do you remember what you said?  Be with someone who shares your love and treats you kindly?”

Mycroft nods.

“I finally have that…with John.  You can’t deny me that, Mycroft.  Not after all these years.”

His brother’s voice wavers.  “When I first met John, and he defended you so ardently, after only knowing you a day…I knew that I had already lost you.” 

He traces his fingers over Sherlock’s smooth back. 

“Do you regret this?” he asks. 

“No,” Sherlock says quickly.  “I regret none of this.”

He leans down, cups Mycroft’s face.

“But I am sick of who I am, Mycroft.  I’ve seen what I can be, how _human_ I can be—and now I _always_ want to be that person.  I’m tired of the coldness and the fear and being alone.”

He sits up in bed.

“You were wrong, you know.”

“About what?”

“Caring.  Caring _is_ an advantage.”

He puts his mouth to Mycroft’s ear.  “ _What’s the point if you don’t care_?”

Sherlock stands, and Mycroft watches him walk over to the window, nude and beautiful in the moonlight. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to take a bath.  Then I’m going to sleep here with you.  And in the morning, I’m going to go home.”

 

 

 

 

Sherlock stretches out in the tub, letting the steaming water soak the tension from his limbs.  Resting his head back against the ledge, he slides into the warm embrace, sighing.  His mind feels strangely clear as he lathers his skin with soap.

After he towels himself dry, he walks back into Mycroft’s bedroom.  The air feels cool on his damp skin.

Mycroft holds out Sherlock’s phone.  “You got a text.”

He sits down on the bed and goes to his inbox.  It’s from Irene.

_Sebastian Moran is dead. He was just killed in Hokkaido._

“Sherlock?”

His hands are shaking so hard that he can barely type back.

_Have the body arranged to be sent to me.  SH_

_I will let you know the details._

He feels like he is falling through the floor, his chest aching so unbearably that he can barely breathe.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” Mycroft asks, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“A dear friend,” he whimpers.  “He’s dead.”

 

 

 

 

*            

This will never get any easier, he knows.  Seb’s body is stiff and heavy, and Sherlock has to stop every few minutes.  Each time, he lays his friend down gently and drops the shovel, trying to catch his breath.  When he’s rested long enough, he picks the body back up, cradling it against his chest.  Sherlock places the shovel on top.

It takes an eternity, retracing Seb’s path with such a heavy load, but finally, when he’s gone deep enough into the forest, he sees the bright red slash across the tree.  He sets Seb down and searches for the mossy boulder. 

Sweat pours down his back as he digs, and his shirt clings to his skin.  By the time the hole is deep enough, his forearms are burning with agony.  He throws aside the shovel and stumbles over to Seb.

He doesn’t want to do this.  He _desperately_ does not want to put his friend so deep into the ground, to lose him forever to the silent earth.  But he must. 

Slowly, he drags the body over to the black, cavernous hole and carefully lowers him inside.  Sherlock winces at the thud when he drops him. 

_I know what it’s like now, Seb.  To bury someone I love._

Somehow, he forces himself to pick up the shovel, fill in the hole, and pat the soil down.  When he’s finished, he collapses on the ground, exhausted.

A fresh wave of grief washes over him.  Sherlock’s back hunches over as he weeps. 

Through his tears, he tries to speak. 

“Seb—it was only chance that we met.  It’s even more impossible that we became friends.  But it was all because you understood what it was like to be me.  And you knew what it was like to be John.”

He wipes his burning eyes.

“You were one of the most sympathetic, forgiving human beings I have ever known.”

Seb’s kind face swims so clearly into his mind.  Sunlight falling through his blonde hair, across that tan, good-looking face.

“I’m going to tell John everything I ever knew about you,” he promises.  “ _Everything_.  It’s only because of you that I get to go back to him.”

Sherlock stares down at the dirt, picturing Seb and Jim curled towards each other in the darkness.  His fists clench when he realizes how easily it could be himself and John. 

“You don’t have to go another day without him now.  We both knew what would happen to you when we left this forest…but it wasn’t my place to take that choice away from you.”

He reaches down, strokes the soil.

“I wish you would have stayed a little longer, Seb.  I wish you could have met John.”

Sherlock stands up shakily and scrapes his fingers over Jim’s grave, gathering a handful of shriveled wildflowers that Seb had placed there days before.  Sherlock scatters them over the freshly dug mound, barely able to see from behind his tears.

He holds his head with shaking hands. 

“Goodbye, Sebastian Moran.  I will never forget you.”

 

 

 

 

*            

Sebastian rolls down the windows and presses his foot to the gas.  The car glides over the highway, and the wind violently whips the blonde bangs from his face.

“Don’t worry, Seb,” Jim drawls, grinning at him.  “I’m not going to torture you with classical music.  Nope, not on our _vacation_.”

He smirks, leaning his head out of the window like a dog.  “VACATION!” he yells.

Sebastian laughs, and Jim plugs his phone into the stereo. 

“Modest Mouse,” he says, flipping through songs.  He cranks up the sound and the opening guitar flows out of the speakers and drifts out the windows.

There is something both joyful and sad about the music all at once.  Sebastian can taste the way the chords flow and drip, like waves of salt and water.

Jim throws his head back and sings along.

 

_Your body may be gone, I’m gonna carry you in, in my head in my heart in my soul_

_And maybe we’ll get lucky and we’ll both live again_

_Well I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know don’t think so_

_  
_

Seb presses the pedal harder, and they breeze over the cliff road.  The brilliant blue sea comes into view.

_  
_

_The ocean breathes salty, won’t you carry it in?_

_In your head, in your mouth, in your soul_

_And maybe we’ll get lucky and we’ll both grow old_

_Well I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I hope so_

Something is twisting in Sebastian’s heart, some unnamed fear, and he finds that he can scarcely draw breath.

Jim looks over at him, lowers his sunglasses.

“Seb.  What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”  He grips the steering wheel more tightly.

Jim’s voice lowers, almost gentle.  “Tell me.”

Sebastian meets his eyes nervously.  “Is this trip such a good idea?  Three days of sitting on the beach.  Won’t you get bored?”  _Won’t you get bored with me?_

Jim only smiles, his eyes crinkling, and Sebastian thinks _Sunshine.  Unadulterated light._

He reaches over and places his hand over Sebastian’s.

“Dear, I could never get bored with you.”

Sebastian’s chest loosens, and he turns his gaze back to the road.  A brilliant smile lights up his face, and he knows with unwavering certainty that there will never be another moment as happy as this one.

 

 

 

 

*            

“Mrs. Hudson!” John calls down the stairs.  “Are you gonna get that?”

He bites his lip, pecking at the keyboard. 

“Mrs. Hudson!”

John groans and puts his laptop on the table.  Answering the single rings never gets any easier.  Mrs. Hudson has taken to getting the door for him, explaining in a low voice that John doesn’t take cases anymore.

“I’ll get it, then,” he sighs, rising to his feet.

John grasps his walking stick and drags his cumbersome leg down the stairs.

He limps to the door and unlocks it.  “Sorry, but we’re not taking cases any—”

He stares into smooth pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and ice blue eyes.

John shakes his head and shuts the door.  He sighs, turning away, knowing that as soon as he lumbers back up the stairs, he’s going to have to phone his psychiatrist and ask about the side effects of his new antidepressants.

When the doorbell rings again, he jumps.

“Okay, this isn’t funny,” he grumbles, wrenching open the door.

“John.  I’m so sorry.” 

The man’s mouth trembles as he steps through the archway and closes the door behind him.  Hesitantly, he reaches out and settles a very firm, very real hand on John’s shoulder.

“Sher—”  John’s knees buckle.  “No—it can’t—Sher?”

The man cups John’s face with large, warm hands.

“It’s me, John.  I’m really here.”

John’s eyes widen, and he runs his fingers through soft brown curls. 

“I’m home now,” Sherlock breathes.  “I’m home.”

“Oh god, Sherlock.”

John tucks the other man against him, pressing his nose into the curve between neck and shoulder, and oh god _it’s him_.

And then John is sobbing brokenly, dragging Sherlock down to the floor as his legs give out.  Sherlock goes with him, wrapping his arms around John, holding his head into his chest.

“John,” Sherlock moans.  “I’m sorry.  I faked my death to protect you.  It’s no excuse, I know.” 

He tremors.  “Moriarty is dead.  I hunted down every man and woman in his network and killed them all—so I could go h-home.”

John shakes his head, his eyes so swollen he can barely see.  “It’s okay, Sherlock.  _It’s okay_.”

“John, I have to tell you.  What I need to say is.  I—”

He presses his nose into John’s forehead.  “I love you.  John, I love you.”

“Oh.”  The breath goes out of John’s chest, and he sags against him.

Sherlock tilts his head down, presses his lips softly against John’s cheek.

“All I care is that you came back.  Like I asked you to.  _You came back_.”

Eyes blazing, Sherlock tilts up John’s chin and kisses him hard, and John immediately kisses back, cradling the back of Sherlock’s head. 

 _This is what it’s like_ , Sherlock thinks wildly as John devours his mouth, sliding his tongue around his own.  Stars and lightning and a billion smoldering fires.  For the rest of his life, he never wants to do anything else but taste John’s mouth and his tongue and skin and sweat.

Slowly, John pulls back, and Sherlock strokes the bangs out of his face. 

“I love you, too, Sherlock,” he says throatily, wiping the moisture from his cheeks.

John reaches for Sherlock’s hand and threads their fingers together.  He kicks the walking stick to the ground and leads Sherlock up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Slowly, they peel off their clothing and lay in bed together, every inch of their skin touching.  John sinks his nose into Sherlock’s chest and whimpers. 

“Shhhh.”  Sherlock tightens his arms around John.  “You don’t have to worry anymore, John.  I’m never going to leave you again.”

John raises his chin and slides his lips over Sherlock’s.

“You _know_ ,” Sherlock whispers against John’s mouth.  “when you’ve found the _one_.”

John’s hands claw into his back.

“You open the door and see them standing there, so beautiful that you can barely look at them.  Everything they do…only makes you better.  Just from knowing them.  They rip off your bloody cloak and let all the sunshine in the world pour back in and fill up the darkness.”

Sherlock holds John’s face still and looks into his eyes.

“And you know then…you’re never going to spend another day of your life without them again, not as long as you can help it.”

John weeps, curling his limbs around Sherlock’s smooth skin.  “You never get to leave me again, you bloody idiot.  _Never again_.”

“No,” Sherlock says, shaking his head.  “I swear to you, John.  I never will.” 

John sinks into him, and they breathe together, their chests rising, _up and down, up and down_ , until they slowly fall asleep.  Sherlock shifts, smiling, with John’s lips pressed right up against his heart.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Craig Parkinson as Sebastian Moran.


End file.
